


Compromise

by futureboy



Category: Sarah Jane Adventures
Genre: Bad Flirting, Communication Failure, Developing Relationship, Drinking & Talking, First Kiss, London, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27800791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: Luke and Clyde have a rare night off in the same city to hang out with each other. (Unfortunately, the wider cosmos didn't get the memo.)
Relationships: Clyde Langer/Luke Smith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Compromise

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Farewell, Sarah Jane.

Clyde’s been round Luke’s flat _loads_ of times.

He’s not sure why this particular occasion feels different - Luke’s lived here for eight months now, and Clyde helped him move in, for goodness sakes. It’s a familiar and comforting fixture in his life. _Coolest bachelor pad this side of the Thames,_ he’d told him at the time, to which Luke had said, “yeah, UNIT is a bit full on when it comes to employee living. It’s _weird_. They offered me this mad high-rise in Tower Hamlets - wanted me to be close to Canary Wharf, for some reason, I don’t know - but I’m not living in bloody _Poplar_ , that’s too much. I’m hardly going to be there, anyway. This was the compromise.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it counts as being close to the action if you spend fifteen minutes trying to catch a lift down,” Clyde had agreed.

The ‘compromise’ is a cosy brick building, which Luke shares with maybe twenty other addresses at most. It’s surrounded by grass, it’s extremely pretty and well lit, and honestly, it’s always a bonus when the highest floor is the _third_ storey, instead of the hundredth.

Especially after standing on the overground for thirty minutes.

  
  


Going to Luke’s tonight. Want me to pass on a message?? 

**Yeah, tell him Bolivia’s really sweaty** **  
****And say hi for me 💖**

It’s rude to mention your gross pits over dinner  
Don’t you have ANY manners, Chandra??

**My manners are impeccable. Just because you have the manners of a courting Silurian**

He was a SEA DEVIL  
Completely different   
And he was actually quite sweet until all that happened

 **‘All that’** **  
****You mean the ‘threatening to submerge San Francisco’**

Did put a bit of a dampener on Comiccon, ngl

He gets weird looks for laughing at his phone, but then that’s just Londoners. Plus Clyde always reckons that they’ve seen _way_ weirder things on trains than him snorting at texts from Rani.

(She’s reporting with her fella from South America at the mo. Nice bloke. Clyde’s considering seeing if the lovely couple want to come over for New Year’s.)

It’s a bit inconvenient, being global grown-ups. When Luke’s in London, and when Clyde isn’t at a convention or large meeting with the publisher, they often get together and mash at the Playstation together, or come back from the pub and have a few more drinks in Luke’s living room. They even hosted Christmas dinner there, a month after Luke had moved in, just Luke and Clyde and Rani, all bickering over potatoes and gravy in a kitchen that had been slightly-too-small for all three of them. They’ll have to make room, if this business with Rani’s bloke is as serious as it seems to be becoming. (And well, good for her.)

Sometimes Maria passes through. Sometimes their friends are in the area, via train or plane or spaceship, and they usually head back to Clyde’s house to catch up, because he’s there on a much more permanent basis than Luke or Rani even being in the country.

So Clyde likes getting to go to Luke’s flat, because it’s a rare occasion that he gets to exist in a home away from home.

“Ding-dong, ding- _doonnnnng_ ,” he shouts, to the tune of that song his cousin Maisie used to sing at Brownie Guides. “Anyone home? Lukey-boy?”

Luke pops into view from the other side of the kitchen door. He’s drying his hands with a tea towel that he’s had since first year. “I don’t know why you pretend to ring the doorbell when you’re already half inside,” he grumbles, “you _know_ I’m here, I was just texting you.”

“Can’t hurt to check,” Clyde grins. He closes the door with his heel and follows Luke through. “Rani says she's sweaty, Maria says ambassador training is kicking her up the bum, it's all the usual… Samantha Lewandowski downstairs says hi, by the way, I saw her on my way up. She’s starting to show now, did you know?”

“Yeah,” Luke says, throwing the tea towel over his shoulder. He’s wearing a shirt, so he must have been in work today doing write-ups, because he never wears a suit unless it’s a day for reports or presentations. Good job he’s wearing an apron over it, really, given how uncoordinated he is. “She’s not due for another two years, though. I’m thinking of resigning then, give myself a timeframe or something… It makes you think, really, her husband’s a _teacher._ Imagine explaining _that_ paternity leave to the headmistress.”

“Imagine that midwife visit record,” says Clyde. Blimey, what a palava having kids sounds like. _Especially_ where other species are concerned.

Oh, yeah, Luke’s block of flats is populated almost entirely via UNIT - or the skeleton crews that exist these days, while UNIT is in limbo. Loads of not-quite-human or somewhat-displaced peoples about. Prime example - Mrs Lewandowski is a single year into a three-year pregnancy period. He can’t remember the name of Samantha’s species, but it’s something long and full of consonants, and hearing her speak feels a bit like listening to a complicated drum solo. (She passes her language off as Polish remarkably easily - lots of genders. Funnily enough, it’s the same case for her baby.)

“So what’s the plan?”

“Well, I thought we could have a proper tea and a catch up, and maybe watch something after?” Luke says. “I’ve got that film ‘Extinction’ to watch, I thought it might be funny.”

Oh, it’ll _definitely_ be funny, but Clyde’s a little bit taken aback at the split from routine. “Not what we normally do,” he remarks - Luke’s better with intonation these days, so he hopes the tone conveys that he’s all for the idea, just surprised on top.

Luke shrugs. “Just thought we could do something a bit different, is all,” he says, and turns away awkwardly to peer into the oven.

Ah. See, that’s not standard. _That’s_ weird, even for Luke and his occasionally off-kilter social interactions. Because it looks very much to Clyde like he’s trying to be casual about something, failing completely, and therefore giving away the whole game concerning the hiding of something.

“Are you testing alien food on me?” he asks suspiciously.

“What? ‘Course not,” Luke frowns, glancing over his shoulder, and that’s about the moment that a flashing light alerts them from the windowsill.

“Is that?” asks Clyde.

“Oh, _no_ ,” says Luke.

“That is!” Clyde says excitedly, “you computer-magicked that Xylok crystal!”

“Listen,” Luke says, as though he can possibly justify or downplay building a homegrown Google Hub for a crystal alien. “UNIT would destroy her if they managed to communicate with her properly. She’s still getting used to the pressure after coming up from the bottom of the Marianas Trench, and I haven’t finished that Armageddon upload yet--”

“Her?” asks Clyde. “Trench is a girl?”

“Xylok core endangered!” the hub shrieks. “Energy spike detected!”

“Not now,” says Luke, even as his phone lights up with an alert.

Clyde seizes it. “You have it linked up to your phone?” he asks. “That’s amazing! Have I ever told you that you’re brilliant? Because Luke, you’re bri-- Wait, why does this say _‘imminent threat’_?”

“Because,” says Luke helpfully, snatching his phone back, “there’s a threat, and it’s imminent, and it’s only ten minutes from us, so it’s _something for UNIT to handle_.”

“Hm,” says Clyde. “Are they gonna be alright if they turn up and I’m here? I feel like I make UNIT feel a bit weird, mate, they thought I was a Kirithon when I first walked through the door.”

He has to admit, he’s got mixed feelings about Luke’s employers. Clyde really went off guns right around the time that he’d gone back to the Second World War, _again_ , although that was a _whole_ other story. He’d like to think Sarah Jane would really gloat at him for finally being on her side about weapons… And UNIT, actually. The first time he’d visited one of their bases, they’d scanned Luke with no problem at all. And then he’d thrown a spanner in the works...

“Mr Smith,” the soldiers had said, and waved him through.

“We’ll make a doctor of you yet!” Clyde had joked, just as the barrier had squealed, and the UNIT soldiers had raised their guns.

“Sir, stay where you are--”

And Luke had swept right back in to rescue him. “He’s with me,” he’d said, grabbing Clyde by the arm protectively, “that explanation is way above your clearance.”

“Crikey,” Clyde had said, other hand still splayed in the air, “you get zapped by a police box _one time--”_

“Clyde, _please.”_

“But Mr. Smith, he's--”

“We’re together,” Luke had said fiercely, “and you can take it to the top if you have a problem. Alright?”

And then there had been rather a tense pause, before the first soldier had lowered his weapon, and nodded at Clyde in apology.

“Apologies, Mr. Smith,” he’d said. To _Clyde_.

Whoops.

“Oh, no, no,” Luke had said hastily, “ _no_ , he’s not ‘Mr. Smith’ too, he’s not my--! I mean, we’re not together like _that--_ ”

“You’re leaving me?” Clyde had asked.

He’d earnt a slap in the arm for that. “I hate you,” Luke had muttered to him as they’d passed through the checkpoint, the soldiers waving them past to avoid any more drama, and Clyde struggling to match Luke’s pace, rubbing his bicep and trying desperately not to laugh, “I hate you, I _really_ hate you--”

But yeah. Mistaking him for non-human on his very first visit? Not the best reception he’s ever had.

The phone chimes with yet another alert.

“You have high artron energy levels,” mumbles Luke, trying desperately to turn off the flashing lights from the Xylok hub, “they had reasonable suspicion. Now UNIT knows you’re human, they just think you’re a seasoned space traveller.”

It’s still a bloody odd feeling to have the staff in the corridors be… Well, almost _afraid_ of him. Even more so after seeing him and Luke buddy up with Kate Stewart. It makes Clyde feel extremely uncomfortable.

“So what’s the matter? You’re usually well up for chasing aliens and leaving the soldiers out of it,” he remarks.

It’s true, Luke’s been thinking of cutting ties - his mum had always said it was a good way to get a foot in the door and some contacts, but honestly, the Smiths weren’t hugely big on their active military connections as a family. (Plus Brexit had made things ten times jammier.)

“Because!” Luke protests. “It’s-- it’s my night off!”

“Fair,” he agrees, “it’s mine too, I was _well_ looking forward to this. But we haven’t even asked what this is yet, mate.”

“It is an Arcateenian transporter!” says the hub.

Clyde frowns. “Eugh. That sounds serious, Luke--”

“I know!” he says frustratedly, and turns back to the hub. “Which planet?”

“Arcateen IV!” she chirps.

Luke stills. His hands are braced on the windowsill, and he’s not looking at Clyde.

“Which one is Arcateen IV?” asks Clyde.

“The fifth one is the one with all the artists and poets,” Luke says eventually, “which would probably be a refugee ship. The fourth one is, er… The authoritarian one. So it’s probably got a jailer and a jailee on board.”

“Ah,” says Clyde.

“Yeah,” says Luke. “We should go and see if it’s under control, really. Before they go in, all guns blazing.”

He doesn’t sound very happy about it.

It is a bit of a downer. Clyde hadn’t noticed Luke had set places for them, until there’s bang, and a rumble, which makes two wine glasses on the table rattle on their stems. The phone pings with yet another Xylok notification.

“Bet it’s five minutes away if we leg it,” Clyde concedes.

Under his breath, Luke swears.

* * *

Definitely could have gone better. That’s his official review.

“Why do none of these space-jailers know how to keep their prisoners under control?!” he asks, trying not to touch the walls of the hallways in Luke’s nice building. His gran always used to shout at him for getting the walls mucky. “If the person - well, y’know, if your criminal is all murder-y, you’d think they’d have tighter security, that’s all I’m saying. Someone gets in _one_ tiny crash down the road, and suddenly you’ve missed an entire football match.”

“Yeah,” says Luke.

When they get to Luke’s front door, someone’s standing at it already.

“Ahh!” she says, turning around, and her brunette facade falls into what Clyde can only describe as a Gorgon, but with worms instead of snakes for hair. It’s possible she’s been knocking for a little while. “Luke Smith! Your rooms are making noise--”

“Yeah,” he repeats, only more tired this time. “Thanks, Lumbrica, we’ll sort it.”

“Everything good?” she asks.

It’s a fair question, because the two of them are slightly singed and not-so-slightly sooty, and Clyde’s ripped a hole in the knee of his jeans, and Luke is positively smeared in grease and grime. It’s not like they just got back from the opera, say.

Luke unlocks his door. It swings open; an alarm, previously muffled, continues to beep obnoxiously.

He goes in without another word.

“Everything’s fine,” Clyde tells her. “Nice ‘do, by the way.”

Inside, there’s a thin layer of grey mist clinging to the ceiling. Clyde heaves his filthy trainers off at the door without untying his laces, but Luke hasn’t bothered, heading instead to the source of the confusion.

When Clyde follows him through, he’s still hyped up slightly on the adrenaline that comes hand in hand with an alien encounter. The wine glasses are still perfectly placed on the immaculately arranged table setting, but there’s a punnet of strawberries by the sink he hadn’t noticed before, now a stark red detail from atop the draining board. A dark bottle of wine stands proudly next to them. Meanwhile, Luke wrangles with the oven, and procures a tray of whatever is setting off the smoke alarm, which might have roast potatoes at one point. Presently, it’s hard to tell.

Luke jabs at the oven. With a single pointing finger, he turns it off silently; Clyde flaps at the smoke alarm with a tea towel, unable to contribute much else to the situation.

Eventually, the beeping squeaks flat, and stops.

Luke still doesn’t say anything. The smoke is starting to sting the inside of Clyde’s nose.

Next to the fridge, there is a rectangular cardboard box. When Luke jabs it, the structure collapses entirely - a flood of liquid vanilla oozes out of the seams. Ice-cream, apparently - or at least it had been, before the heat of the kitchen, before the patience demanded from fighting off a vengeful and destructive prisoner-of-war, hellbent on flattening everything from here to Wormwood Scrubs.

Luke gingerly places it in the sink.

Eventually, and after a great deal of thought, Clyde manages to locate something of a mumble, and says:

“…You okay?”

Luke stares into the middle-distance.

It’s unnerving.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I’m-- I’m just gonna get some fresh air. I’ll only be a sec. Do you mind?”

“‘Course not,” says Clyde.

“Feel free to shower, or whatever,” he adds, in a way that suggests an automatic politeness, rather than a conscious one, and then he leaves through the front door again.

Clyde spares a moment to take inventory. For once, it’s not gunge, which-- well, small mercies, it’s always nice not to be that weird kind of slimy damp. _Gross._ On the other hand, he’s definitely as smoky as, if not smokier than, Luke’s kitchen, so the first thing he does is crack open the windows and switch on the extractor fan. It’ll be nice to clear up before he comes back inside. Just to make up for the intergalactic circumstances beyond their control. Turns out there’s some steaks in the fridge, and honestly, who knew Luke was such a whiz at planning a meal? The charred potatoes are unsalvageable, though - probably best to pop them straight in the kitchen waste. When Clyde tips out the cardboard in the sink, he notices one of Luke’s smudged black fingerprints on the nutritional information.

It’s as the smoke clears that he figures it out.

“Well,” Clyde says, and then he swears, but not in a particularly _angry_ way, or any emotional way at all - it’s more of a factual swear, really - and he bins the packaging of melted ice cream, and pulls down the sugar from Luke’s tea cupboard to dust over the strawberries, and heads out to find Luke, with a punnet in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

Because Luke is doing his quirky born-running thing again. And Clyde feels a bit thick.

He finds Luke sat on the steps, leading out to the road that circles the back of the block of flats. Down the hill is a park with all sorts of brightly coloured structures curling through it, but there aren’t any kids there at the moment. (Scared off by the distant explosions, no doubt.)

“Hey.”

“Hey,” says Luke, lifting his head from between his hands. “Sorry about tea.”

“Not your fault,” says Clyde, and perches on the brickwork next to him. “S’pose someone’s got to go out there and remind the fuzz from beyond the stars _who_ exactly is a Level 5 Planet.”

Luke snorts, and finally looks over, so Clyde offers him the punnet and the wine all in one go.

He takes the wine bottle.

“Got a corkscrew?”

Clyde fumbles for the miniature penknife he keeps on his house keys. “Honestly. Defender of the Earth and you haven’t even got a corkscrew? Call yourself a Swiss Army Genius, good lord--”

“I’ve _never_ called myself that,” Luke says, in a thoroughly Luke-esque manner, and digs in the screw. Jammy git can always pull a cork flawlessly.

Clyde plucks a strawberry out of the plastic by its stem and sinks his teeth into it, red and ripe and sweet in contrast to the sharp smoke on the back of his tongue. In contrast, Luke takes a swig straight from the bottle, and a dark droplet clings to his bottom lip when he sets the glass against the brick step below.

“We’ve definitely come back scruffier than this after an adventure,” Clyde says.

“I’ve come back scruffier than this on the _Tube_ ,” mutters Luke.

Clyde chokes a little bit on his mouthful of strawberry; at least if Luke is being sarky then he must be feeling better than he did before. Determined to see a cheer-up operation through, he swallows heavily, and says: 

“We could order takeaway and play Fall Guys, if you want.”

This time, when Luke chuckles, it’s not the same. There’s no laughter in it - just a huff of air. “Not really what I had in mind,” he admits, shrugging like he’s embarrassed of his own attempts at… Well, Clyde’s not sure if he’s supposed to let on that he knows exactly what this attempt was _supposed_ to be.

“Luke, mate,” he says, semi-seriously, “if you wanted to play Monster Prom, then you should’ve invited Rani. I’ve told you before, I only want to pull Liam but she’s called dibs--”

Luke smiles, twists the penknife over in his hands, and clears his throat.

“I didn’t want to invite Rani tonight,” he confesses, finally. And it’s not even much of a confession, really - but it’s enough to push the boundaries, and get Clyde to give up the pretence.

So he scoots the punnet towards Luke, and switches it out for the wine.

“I know what you were trying to do,” he says quietly, spinning the bottle in his hold so that the label skims by like ticker tape. “I’m sorry it went pear-shaped. I know it’s not the same, but if you fancy getting Chinese and watching me sulk over virtual crowns, then I’m up for it.”

Maybe he’s imagining things, but it feels like Luke is suddenly tenser than concrete beside him. Luckily, he’s not done yet:

“And if you want to throw on some emo music and snog on the sofa, then we could give that a go and all,” he continues, and god, he can’t look at him, so he picks at the label on the wine bottle and wonders if that weird discomfort in his jaw is a strawberry pip, awkwardly stuck between his teeth. “On the other hand… If you wanted to forget about the whole shebang and never speak of it again,” he continues, “then your wish is my command! Whatever you want. I’m cool with it.”

He forces himself to turn his head forty-five degrees, and when he gets there, Luke is still staring at the strawberries. Clyde takes a generous swig of wine to distract himself and immediately regrets it.

“Blimey,” he wheezes, tannins cutting through the awkwardness. “We should’ve let that breathe.”

Luke accidentally bursts into laughter, and covers his mouth with the back of his hand, like he used to do in school when Clyde would crack him up during lessons. It's still extremely endearing.

It tapers off, but the tension has been broken, and Luke looks like he might be past the embarrassment now. “‘Snog on the sofa’?” he asks, eyes twinkling.

“Is that your wish request, or are you just making sure you heard me right?” Clyde jokes.

“Hm… Bit of both.”

“Oh, okay, ” he grins, “right result, then.” (He hadn’t been expecting that to work.) “Posh dinner some other time?”

With an exaggerated flick of the wrist, Luke throws a strawberry stalk back into the plastic in delighted frustration. “This is so _stupid_ ,” he whines, chewing on the words like they’re gelatin, “I was _really_ nervous! I don’t know how to ask anyone out - I’ve never done it before! I thought I had it in the box--”

“In the _bag_ , Luke.”

“--But I have to be honest,” he continues, not taking any notice of the correction in the slightest, “Teen Vogue didn’t have any suggestions for _alien interruptions_. Should have prepared it myself, really.”

Clyde blinks. “You were reading Teen Vogue for first date ideas?”

“Yeah,” he says, “it seemed more sensible than getting thoughts from rom-com films. I don't know.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Clyde agrees. He feels a bit sorry for the bottle of wine taking on his antsy picking, because the labels are looking a bit scraggy now. “Apparently this red pairs really well with lamb,” he says, “were you cooking lamb?” 

“See, this is another reason I was nervous,” Luke groans, “because _you’re_ the famously good cook, and I get my skills from my mum, who could barely microwave beans. This is _so_ unfair.”

It is, a bit.

“Part of my charm, unfortunately. It's not my fault I'm this week's Star Baker,” he says. “I can’t believe you were gonna dinner-and-movie me.”

Luke winces. “Was it bad?” 

“Steady on, mate, it still hasn’t happened yet.”

Luke braces himself on his knees easily, and draws himself up to full height, before offering Clyde a hand up. “Alright,” he says, “how about I still kiss you, even after we eat a lot of garlic and spicy chili stuff?”

Clyde grasps Luke’s hand, and lets himself be hauled to his feet.

Before he can really register what his own brain is ordering him to do, Clyde’s hooking a hand around the back of Luke’s collar and pulling him down for something chaste and wine-tinged, just a flat press of lips that’s sooty and vivacious and bursting with good intentions.

Luke fumbles at Clyde’s elbow with a useless hand, and _hmm!_ s in surprise. 

And eventually, he settles into three quiet, blissful seconds of kissing Clyde back.

His mouth buzzes with ticklish static when he goes back down to the flats of his feet, and Luke is staring at his lips like he can physically see it.

“What was that?”

Clyde's lungs are still recovering from that little bumpy thrill of forgetting how to breathe for a sec. “Y’know. I just thought… Why not ‘before’? Garlic and chili sounded more like a second go at it, to me,” he says, shooting for casual and missing by a mile.

Oh well. It all works out alright, in the end, because Luke kisses him again, mimicking the first exactly, and making Clyde feel like he's about to pass out. He can't believe his bloody luck. Of _all_ the things to happen to him tonight. 

“Try third,” Luke murmurs.

If they stay here any longer, Clyde's gonna find himself necking with his best mate on the steps of what is technically a government building. So he crams the cork back into the bottle, and retrieves the strawberries, and flashes a grimy grin at the bloke he really, really cares about. 

“You wash your face,” Clyde says, “and I’ll ask your new Xylok gadget to bring up something on JustEat.”

“Deal,” Luke agrees.

And after that - just for once - everything goes gently according to plan. 

**Author's Note:**

> My writing blog can be found [here.](https://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com/) Come say hi! And thank you for reading!


End file.
